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Images via Need Supply
Boy howdy, you’d better hurry up and buy a pair of these Bondi B Sneakers from Hoka x Engineered Garments (available in Multi, White, and Black) before they sell out faster than Green Day after Dookie. This sneaker design is as quirky and fun as one might expect from a collabo between these two idiosyncratic brands and I’m here for it, in the parlance of our times. Obviously you should cop a pair in each colorway, so you can rock the white joints on Casual Fridays, the multicolored joints at TGIFridays, and the black joints at home on Friday night, alternating between doing something wholesome, like binging the Great British Baking Show, and doing something wholly uncomfortable, like masturbating to the Great British Baking Show. Hoka is known for producing legit running shoes, so you know these will be comfy out of the box, and Engineered Garments is known for being fucking awesome, so you know you will look at least 50% cooler while wearing them. I’m trying to think of a witticism somehow relating the Bondi Bs to Cardi B, but it’s just not happening. Maybe Hoka could consider releasing a special edition red-bottomed "Bodak Yellow" colorway, preferably before press time for this post. Look at me using terms like “press time”, as though I was some sort of actual journalist. This blog resembles actual journalism about as closely as Little Caesar’s resembles actual pizza. Not exactly holding out hope for a Pulitzer over here. However, I will accept a sponsorship from Little Caesar’s. In exchange, I will stop mentioning you in a negative light. Indeed, I’ll start doing that now, as a gesture of good faith. Little Caesar’s produces food that you can ingest to gain sustenance and stave off starvation. That is a factual statement to which I freely attest. Who’s hungry? I know I am. This post is the blogging equivalent of going to the supermarket after taking a blunt to the face and ending up with a basket filled with two slabs of bacon, three bags of marshmallows, and nineteen single serving Icelandic yogurts. Lingonberries are deadass smack. You can quote me on that, especially if you work for a skyr producer. I’m looking at you, siggi’s. Gimme dat gurt, bruh. I’m down for a yogurt sponsorship, if the whole Little Caesar’s thing doesn’t pan out (that’s a pizza pun, miei amici). Guys, I’m so fucking hungry. I’m looking at the multicolored Bondi Bs and now I want some Fruit by the Foot and/or some Skittles. No Red Vines or Twizzlers though. Both those candies are straight ass. Don’t @ me -RB
Images via Opumo
Fall is on the creep, fam, and it’s time to talk chore coats, specifically this Stormy Sea Chet Painter’s Jacket from Wax London. The end of summer means many things to many people. For parents and students, it marks the beginning of a new school year. For fashion nerds such as myself, it heralds the arrival of new AW (autumn/winter to the uninitiated) collections from innumerable clothing brands. For the fictional residents of the equally fictional Haddonfield, Illinois, it serves as a bone-chilling reminder of a certain masked spree killer’s reign of terror. I’d list more examples of different character types being affected by seasonal change, but the Rule of Three is ironclad and shall not be broken, under pain of failed comedy, which is a fate worse than death. Just ask Dane Cook. Yes, I know he’s in the middle of a self-proclaimed career comeback, but I recently sat through the entirety of Good Luck Chuck and I will hate him forever for his part in crafting that stillborn rat fetus of a film. I should mention that if you are a resident of Haddonfield, which you aren’t, because you are a real person, be careful wearing this Chet Jacket, lest the fabric end up being garment-dyed with your own blood. The Shape could be around any corner, behind any bush, waiting to turn you into a human knife block. Is it too early for a post filled with references to the Halloween franchise? You decide. Anywhoozles, Wax London named this painter’s jacket in honor of jazz great Chet Baker, not your friend Chet from Theta Chi, who did thirty-six months in prison due to his involvement in a hazing ritual that resulted in the death of a pledge. No one’s naming anything after that Chet. He almost cost the frat their charter. And he can’t play the trumpet for shit. I recognize that my last post was about Chads and this one’s about Chets and I’m fine with that. If you’ve got a problem with me making fun of stereotypical white guy names, feel free to start your own gently irreverent fashion blog and make fun of my name. Damn, I started this post by saying we’d talk about chore coats and I’ve done nothing but talk about Dane Cook, Michael Myers, and fraternity-related manslaughter, which is a shame, because this particular coat is straight up flames. Let me rectify this injustice with the quickness. Long time readers will know that I’m a sucker for cool pockets and those big ole patch pockets definitely deliver on that front. I’m also enamored of that powdery blue garment-dyed fabric. Sometimes a color/texture combo hits the mark so perfectly that all you can do is marvel at its greatness. I have no notes for you, Wax London. But I do have a note for Dane Cook: go fuck yourself. Just kidding homeslice; please hook me up with a role in your next terrible movie -RB
Images via Très Bien
Hola brochachos! Today I’m lusting after this Chad Coat from Acne Studios, because I believe it’s never too early to start looking at winter coats, what with all this man-made climate change creeping up on us. I don’t know if you’ve seen the documentary film The Day After Tomorrow, but a new ice age could kick off at pretty much any time and we’ll all be forced to burn civilization’s most precious documents to keep warm. Plus, there will be hella wolves just roaming around, looking for hapless wanderers to devour. What more thematically appropriate garb could there be than a wool overcoat? Shout to sheep, by the way. And goats, I guess, as the Chad Coat is made from a wool/cashmere blend and I don’t want the goat community to think I’m biased against them. Goats are great. Having weird horizontal pupils and screaming like a terrified human? Fuck yeah. I’m about that goat life. Should we move on or shall I continue to extoll the strange virtues of these noble ovine ruminants? Given that you are unable to respond in real time, I’m choosing the former, so say goodbye to the goats. Don’t worry though, I’m sure they’ll return in a future installment, maybe one about delicious mutton dishes and/or the dark lord Satan. Anyway, Acne produces a ton of cool clothes, but I’ve always found their overcoats to be particularly covet-worthy and this Chad Coat is no exception. It’s got super clean lines and a perfectly relaxed fit. Even better, despite its name, it looks like the kind of garment no man named Chad would wear, probably due to the fact that it a) has sleeves and b) would make executing a keg stand considerably more difficult. Apologies to any and all Chads in my readership. I don’t mean to stereotype you based on something as basic and unchosen as your name. I certainly don’t want the Chad community thinking I’m biased against them. Chads are great. Not as great as goats, but who is? Let’s not set unattainable standards. That never works out well for anyone. Except for goats, of course, who will always remain the undisputed champions of the animal kingdom, thanks to eons of successful evolution and the continuing patronage of Satan. Sheep are cool too, but they were not chosen by the dark lord and are thusly inferior to their goat cousins. Not trying to shit on sheep here -- I’m half-Welsh, which probably makes me part sheep -- but, goddamn, goats are just so great. Did you know that the process of goats giving birth is called “kidding”? So when you say “I’m just kidding”, you’re really saying “I’m just giving birth to an infant goat”. Okay, that last sentence is definitely untrue. Now I’m getting swept up in the euphoria of this goat appreciation post and telling silly falsehoods for no good reason. Goats will do that to you. It’s one of their many powers, like climbing trees and not having any teeth on their upper jaws. So go ahead and cop this Chad Coat. Do it for yourself. More importantly, do it for the goats. I know they’ll appreciate it -RB
Images via Context
Dear Santa, I know it’s only August and also you don’t exist, but I would nonetheless like to request a pair of these Stow Acorn Antique Derby Boots from Trickers, because they are, in layman’s terms, the tits. Like holy fucking shit, man, just look at these jawns: they are the Platonic ideal of dress boots. Who doesn’t love a storm welt paired with a heavy brogue? Brogues are for rogues, bro. Everybody knows that. Brogues are not for peasant slaves though. No offense to the peasant slaves, of course. I don’t make the rules. I merely, like a whore, unpack my heart with words. No offense to the whores either. Sex work is real work. Are any of these Hamlet jokes landing or am I on my own here? With every post, I find new ways to alienate large portions of my vanishingly small audience. I’d never even be able to wear these boots, considering how many times I’ve shot myself in the foot. Why, what an ass am I! Okay, I promise to stop with the Shakespeare quotes. I’m just feeling emo and there are few characters in the history of literature more emo than that tragically mopey Prince of Denmark. A mall emo-inspired production of Hamlet would actually be super dope. Stick him in a My Chemical Romance shirt, give him a swoopy haircut, snakebite piercings, and copious amounts of heavy black eyeliner. You know what? I’ve said too much already. If any of you jack my idea and put this show up without consulting me, I will burn down whatever shithole black box theater you’re operating out of. Your stage manager will be scooping up your cremains with your shitty, hastily Photoshopped playbills. Think these are idle threats? I wrote the first draft of the book for Spider-Man: Turn Off the Dark, but it was stolen off my computer while I was dropping a dining hall cuisine deuce in the dorm bathroom. We all know how that one worked out. No offense to thespians injured in the line of duty. I have mad respect for acting. Y’all probably think Uta Hagen is a German ice cream brand. I’m a fan of the craft. And Billy Zane. He’s a cool dude. BloodRayne was hot garbage though. I promise I didn’t write that one. Fuck, how did I get from 670 USD boots to Uwe Boll’s filmography? I feel like I took a bunch of Ambien in my bedroom and woke up naked in the middle of a Walgreens. Hate when that happens. Oh well. I’ll just have to stay on topic next time. Pinky promise -RB
Images via Hodinkee Look out, folks, because I’m about to wax poetic about this Prospex Diver SPB087 from Seiko, cosigned by the good people at PADI (the Professional Association of Diving Instructions) and emblazoned with their signature blue and red colors on the coin-edge bezel. No watch-related post would be complete without an extended enumeration of technical particulars, so let’s get that out of the way, shall we? The SPB087, like most of the modern Prospex series, takes inspiration from the classic Seiko divers of the 1960s and ‘70s, specifically the 1968 Hi-Beat diver (ref. 6159-7001). The case is stainless steel, with a 44mm diameter, 13.1mm thickness, and 200 meters of water resistance. Inside it is the 6R15 caliber, a 23 jewel in-house movement with a 50 hour power reserve, beating at a solid 21,600 vph (vibrations per hour). The 6R15 features manual winding and hacking seconds capabilities, in addition to Seiko movement mainstays the SPRON 510 mainspring and the Magic Lever self-winding system. If your eyes glazed over while reading the last four sentences, I totally understand. Getting into mechanical watches is an intrinsically geeky fascination, one that can seem absolutely alien to any outsiders unfortunate enough to get caught in conversation with its adherents, which is incidentally the situation you find yourself in right now, dear reader. We few, we happy few, who wish to discuss the ins and outs of handset styles and lug-to-lug distances are a self-selecting bunch of weirdos and, oh no, I’m doing it, aren’t I? Quick, think of something culturally relevant to go on a tangent about. Thanos memes? Too played out. Trade war with China? Too depressing. Jeffrey Epstein being suicided by the Illuminati because he was going to confess to providing our reptilian overlords with young, nubile sex slaves for the purpose of creating saurian-human hybrids? Bingo. Do you think it’s an accident that Epstein spent 6.5 million USD funding the creation of the Program for Evolutionary Dynamics at Harvard University? Do you believe it’s merely by circumstance that Epstein donated a total of 100,000 USD to Bill Richardson’s 2002 and 2006 gubernatorial campaigns in New Mexico, the state which just so happens to be the home of Roswell and Area 51, not to mention Epstein’s own “baby ranch”? I’ll bet dollars to donuts that if you bust out your divining rods and do some dowsing, you’ll find that said ranch is situated right on top of intersecting ley lines. I’m perspiring quite vigorously as I type this, because unspooling a crazed conspiracy theory -- I mean, revealing the truth -- is sweaty business. I can’t help but think about the people on Instagram who only read the first half of this post and remain blissfully ignorant of the feverish madness that followed. I like to think they missed out -RB
Images via albam
Ayo, before you head off to the yard to bust caps in 30-50 feral hogs, you’d better cop a pair of these Fatigue Trousers from albam (available in Bottle Green and Navy), because how are you going to protect your children and/or property without kitting yourself out in the proper attire? Don’t get it twisted: I’m not making light of the scourge of wild swine that afflict the rural citizens of this great nation. I’m just here to get some unearned lulz out of the internet’s dankest memes before they go completely stale and end up relegated to a forgotten entry on knowyourmeme.com, rubbing elbows with the likes of Scumbag Steve and Philosoraptor. I wish I was strong enough to write entire posts focusing on the featured garments. I wish I had the fortitude to churn out solid paragraphs of dry copy, devoid of random deviations. I wish I could give you good people an unadulterated, meme-free look at these albam Fatigue Trousers, but that’s just not the man I am and that’s just not the world we live in. To quote the internet, “We live in a society”, a society under perpetual threat of attack by violent racists, assault rifle wielding sociopaths, and, apparently, hordes of untamed pigs. I fully acknowledge that, in the wake of tragedy, it can be hard to care about pants, regardless of how cool they are. But the tragedies never stop. Something bad is always happening. Isn’t it better to be wearing pants when things go wrong? Especially military-inspired, garment dyed pants that come in dope ass colorways. I hate when shit goes down when I’m not wearing pants and I’m not making an exceptionally poor attempt at a pants-shitting joke. Or at least I’m not trying to. Now is not a time for poop jokes. However, it is a time for pants. All times are times for pants. Okay, maybe just most times. I thought of a bunch of exceptions to that pants rule and I immediately regretted my proclamation, but I don’t want to get bogged down in the minutiae of trouser mores. Or maybe I do. Do you need to wear pants while washing dishes alone? I think not, but reasonable minds can differ. That’s the beauty of living in a pluralistic civilization: we can disagree on the necessity of pants. In fact, we can disagree on just about everything, including, but not limited to, the proper method of deterring 30-50 feral hogs. Sometimes, dear readers, it do be like that -RB
Images via Totokaelo
Goddamn, peeps, I’m about to cop a pair of these Sfesa Elasticated Loafers from Marsèll and stomp around the Earth like a lost member of KISS. I’m not sure if Peter Criss wears slip-on Italian loafers with pumice stone-inspire midsoles, but he probably has a lot of dead skin, so maybe he should consider it. Either that or buy a couple loofahs. Step your exfoliation game up, fam. Protect your epidermis. According to some quick Googleage, The Catman is worth over 2 million dollars, so he can afford to drop 885 USD on a pair of high fashion platform shoes. I’m not saying he should. The man’s not exactly a paragon of sartorial excellence. I don’t know why I’m spending so much time and verbiage shitting on Peter Criss; he’s done nothing to me. Paul Stanley did accuse him of being an antisemite in his memoir, an allegation Criss vigorously denies. I’d prefer not to take sides, but Paul Stanley has always struck me as a humongous douchebag, so I take anything he says with a grain -- nay, a boulder -- of salt. Why can’t I stop talking about KISS? I could be telling you about how Marsèll was founded in 2001 by a trio of siblings (Elisa, Marco, and Roboerto Cima) or how their collections are handmade at their atelier, creating uniquely bold and modern takes on classic shoes and accessories, but instead I’m focusing on a band that famously sells a branded coffin (it’s called the Kiss Kasket, naturally) and wrote the sensuous ballad “Calling Dr. Love”, which features the timeless couplet “So if you please get on your knees / There are no bills, there are no fees”. What a bunch of romantics those boys are! Man, I didn’t know Harvey Weinstein had writing credits on KISS songs. That guy’s a fucking bonafide Renaissance man. Are you cringing? I am. I cringe so often nowadays, muscles I didn’t even know I had are perpetually sore. It’s like the first time you do yoga, except the opposite in nearly every way, unless you happen to be in the same yoga class as Matt Lauer. TIme to buy a Peloton, I guess. Unfortunately, the pedal clips are probably not compatible with these Marsèll loafers. Sorry if that’s a dealbreaker. Fitness is important, but not at the expense of fashion, which is why I hold the entirety of the athleisure movement in such low regard. If there is a devil, I am certain that he wears Lululemon -RB
Images via Kith
Bust out that burner phone, fam, because it’s time to begin an illicit relationship with one of these Kith x FourDii SB-1 Side Bags and may the Lord have mercy on your soul if your main bag finds out. As the old saying goes, Hell hath no fury like a satchel scorned. This seductive little sack features a quick release system, Duraflex clips, and a FIDLOCK magnetic buckle, which are all, I assume, Things That Are Good™. It’s also MOLLE (Modular Lightweight Load-carrying Equipment) system-equipped, meaning you can strap a whole host of useful shit to yourself, and constructed from X-Pac laminated double ripstop fabric, carry industry jargon for lightweight, water repellent, abrasion-resistant badassery. In short, this provocative goomah of a bag can handle whatever you choose to throw at or into it. Just make sure your main bag never catches wind of that one night on that business trip to Denver. You’ve got a good thing going there and it would be a shame to jeopardize it just for a naughty fling with a side bag that comes with additional straps so you can use it as a leg bag or chest rig. I know you. You’re not built for that kind of duplicity. You think you can compartmentalize it all, that no one’s getting hurt. Sure, you’re happy with the main bag, but you want more. It’s not a matter of morality, you tell yourself, it’s a matter of appetite. But soon you’re forgetting what lies you told and to whom. You’re missing dinner dates with the main bag. You’re paying the side bag’s rent. And then comes the fateful day when the side bag tells you the news that changes everything: it’s pregnant. The words send a sharp chill through your entire being, like a bucket of ice water from a painfully outdated ALS Ice Bucket Challenge reference. What are you going to do? What can you do? You can’t kill the side bag. It cost you 230 USD and that’s a shitload of money. You can’t convince it to get an abortion. It’s devoutly religious and believes life begins at conception. You can’t tell your main bag. It’ll leave and take the little coin purses with it. Have I stretched this metaphor as painfully far as it can go? Probably. Should I have stopped about halfway back? Almost certainly. Was it worth it to make everyone, including me, quite uncomfortable? Absofuckinglutely -RB
Images via Railcar Fine Goods
Let’s talk strategy, dear readers: in order to optimize stealth and maximize combat multipliers, we need to equip all the Kyles and Naruto runners with these Ace long sleeve Japanese duck red line selvedge shirts in preparation for the upcoming storming of Area 51. These gorgeous shirts come courtesy of the fine folks over at Railcar Fine Goods and happen to make perfect desert camouflage, which will come in handy when you and your bois hop the fences and begin the assault. The buttons and buttonholes feature lockstitch construction, so even if you break a few threads while clapping them alien cheeks, you don’t have to worry about anything unraveling, except for your increasingly fragile sense of reality. Now, if you thought for a second that I was going to miss out on this soon-to-be fucked out meme, you’re a blithering idiot, because I’ve been senselessly shoehorning specious xenomorph conspiracy theories into this ostensible fashion blog since day one. Finally, a meme has trended its way right into my wheelhouse and I’ll be damned if I’m going to miss this fleeting opportunity. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to forgive myself for dropping the ball on the whole “They did surgery on a grape” thing, although I did recently learn that the machine that did surgery on a grape (Intuitive Surgical Inc.’s da Vinci Surgical System) also did surgeries on people and a few of them went very fucking poorly, prompting a product recall and even a “Warning Letter” from the FDA. Indeed, while the specific medical and moral implications of using robotic technologies to perform minimally invasive surgeries are well above my pay-grade and significantly out of the scope of this website, it doesn’t take a certified bioethicist to know that machines are merely tools. They have no foibles, no insecurities, and no foolhardy desires to raid secretive military bases in order to engage in sexual activity with extraterrestrials. Man, this is one of those posts where I feel really bad about barely saying anything about the garment pictured above, especially because Railcar is a brand I truly admire, but how much can one say about such a rad shirt? I mean, y’all can see it. It’s straight up flames. If the dope pocket game alone isn’t enough to convince you to cop, what the fuck are a few words going to do? Unrelated: do you think it would be possible to release Monster Energy Drink from a crop duster? Asking for a few friends -RB
Images via Cultizm
Holy smokes, this Hobo Travel Bag from Bleu de Chauffe makes me want to abandon my entire life, hop on a passing freight train, and ride the rails for the rest of my days like the noble migrant workers of yore. Of course, very few people (and even fewer actual hobos) can afford to drop 730 USD on a weekender bag, even if it is the most glorious weekender bag of them all: handmade in France out of high quality vegetable-tanned leather, in a colorway deliciously named “Cuba Libre”. A humble bindle stick it is not. Is there not something desperately romantic about becoming a drifter and moving from shanty town to shanty town? I’m trying to not mention the Cleveland Torso Murders, because I’m trying so hard to keep this post light, but whenever I think about old-timey drifters, my mind goes straight to the Mad Butcher of Kingsbury Run, the serial killer who beheaded and dismembered at least twelve people between 1935 and 1938. Many of the victims were castrated. The killer was never apprehended and never identified. But that was a long time ago and we’re keeping the tone light, so let’s focus on the bag and not a series of horrific murders that even legendary lawman Eliot Ness failed to solve. Okay, light tone, here we go. You know what’s super duper nice? Packing your favorite bag and jetting off for a weekend getaway at a quaint bed and breakfast somewhere in the countryside. Nothing eases the stress of modern life like a couple days of reclaimed wood, vintage wallpaper, and comforting room service. Egg-in-a-hole made with farm fresh eggs and homemade sourdough? Don’t mind if I do. Bonus points if the proprietors are an elderly married couple who refer to themselves as “innkeepers” and their guests as “honey”. Their enduring love is truly an inspiration to us all. Negative points if you happen to wander into the basement and find an antique gynecological examination table equipped with rusted shackles and an old wooden shelf filled with preserved fetuses in moldy Mason jars. I don’t know about you, but I usually take at least one star off of my TripAdvisor review when that happens to me -RB
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